


Quenta Helcariltári: Tale of the Sparkling Ice Queen

by sniperct



Series: Quenta Iantél and other stories [1]
Category: Frozen (Disney Movies), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beleriand, Canon Compliant, Crossover, Elsa is a Maiar, F/F, First Age, Haladin | House of Haleth, Low Fantasy, Mash-up, Middle Earth, Music, Noldor Asami, Orcs, Song - Freeform, Soul Bond, Soulmates, The Maiar - Freeform, The Noldor, The Valar, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25321003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sniperct/pseuds/sniperct
Summary: Three hundred years after the sun first rose, and nearly seven thousand before the time of the Fellowship of the Ring, Honeymaren of the Haladin follows her people through darkness and terror to find a new home.But a song calls to her, and separated from her people in the middle of a blizzard, she stumbles across a woman, a sparkling Queen of ice and snow. Not human nor one of the Elves, but something more.
Relationships: Elsa/Honeymaren (Disney)
Series: Quenta Iantél and other stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1082085
Comments: 23
Kudos: 41
Collections: Elsamaren Summer 2020





	Quenta Helcariltári: Tale of the Sparkling Ice Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Elsamaren Summer 2020 Day 5 - I'll Always Love you - Alternate Universes
> 
> I've been wanting to add another entry into my Quenta series for a long time, and Elsamaren seemed perfect for the First Age. Hopefully I've explained a few things just enough!
> 
> ETA: Probably should have included this sooner lol
> 
> Kwentah Hell-kah-rill-tah-ree
> 
> Also fixed the title, Quenya is funky in that when combining words to make new words I'd made a slight booboo.

****

**The Year 375 of the First Age**

There were dark days in the forest. Raids from Orcs had become more and more common and Honeymaren’s family had been pushed back farther and farther. They’d lose their homestead and then build anew, and then again they would lose all that they’d built. And yet despite this, they were proud and for most of her life they’d had little contact with other members of their people outside of festivals or gatherings.

The Haladin, after all, did not bow to any one chief and as far as Honeymaren was concerned her mother was as good as any other leader.

But those dark days grew darker and the nights longer and in their forest they risked being assailed from all sides. Honeymaren learned to fight as well as hunt alongside her brother, which became so much more important when their mother fell ill.

It was Haleth, daughter of Haldad, who came to their door one day. She was broad and imposing, with fierce brown eyes that already held a dark glint. She’d seen battle, and loss, and all that came with it.

Honeymaren and Ryder flanked their sick mother as Haleth spoke, “There’s a large force of Orcs and Goblins just days from the forest,” Haleth said. “My father has built a stockade near the fork in the river and we are gathering as many of our people as we can.”

“Safety in numbers,” Ryder guessed, and Haleth nodded.

Maren knew that place; the river forked, leaving a tall slab of rock jutting out over the water. It provided a choke point and an easier point of defence, with the river preventing attack from the other three sides. Any attackers would be funneled in from the north and it would be difficult to overwhelm even a small number of defenders.

On the other hand, it would also mean they would all be trapped.

When she raised her voice and said as such, Haleth smiled at her. “Good. You must know that this will not be easy. It is likely that we’ll all die.”

“Better a small chance than none at all,” Ryder said, glancing at her.

Honeymaren nodded in agreement, “Better to die to save our people than to die here.” It was a small chance, and it would be hard and difficult though she could not know how hard it would actually be. But the decision was made; she would follow Haleth and her father.

There was little time to think, after that. They packed lightly; clothing, weapons, what food they could carry. Their mother pressed a scroll into her hand, “Take this, too. It’s the history of our family, Mare. Should either of you survive, we can live on through this.”

“You’re not coming with us?” Ryder asked, eyes sliding from his mother to Maren and back again.

Somehow, Honeymaren was not surprised.

“I’ll just be a burden.” She pulled each of them into her arms, “I love you with all of my heart, and I will always be with you. But as you have chosen your fate, so too must I choose my own.” 

Then she pulled away, walking carefully to the kitchen.

Before Maren could think about it, before she could _let_ herself think about it, she picked up her pack, “I love you too, mother. Until we meet again.”

Their mother smiled at them from the doorway. “Until we meet again.”

Honeymaren knew, even as they hiked to the place where they’d meet Haleth and others of their people, that she would not see her mother again in this life.

****

***

The orcs seemed like an endless sea. But they held the line, Ryder at the gate and Honeymaren atop one of the wooden walls, even as the orcs threw themselves upon the stockade as if they were trying to break it with their very bodies.

They were being tested, Honeymaren thought, the orcs at the head of their army sacrifices to determine the strength of the Haladin and their defences. 

Several managed to break through the line and Honeymaren leapt down, driving her spear into the chest of a burly orc. Something hard struck her in the head and she stumbled to her knees. She tried to regain her bearings, but her ear rang with a haunting, far-off song.

Who was singing at a time like this? It was no battle-song, like the first few hours, before they’d begun to bear the effects of battle.

The song came in on a chilled breeze, a woman’s voice that she recognized from recent dreams. If she closed her eyes she could almost see the face...

Someone shouted her name, cutting her off from everything but the ringing in her ears. The head of an orc bounced past and then Haleth was pulling her to her feet. “That was brave, but watch your back.”

“Thank you,” she replied, retrieving her spear. Together, they joined the line and pushed the orcs back again.

They were getting the last of them back outside the walls, spearing and slashing, when another band of the creatures cut off two of their people. She heard Haldar, Haleth’s twin brother, shout something but couldn't make out what it was. Not until she saw his father cut down by one of the orcs.

Screaming in rage and grief, Haleth leapt onto an orc, driving her spear into its skull. Maren darted forward, barely parrying a strike to Haleth’s back as she twisted around and then ran the orc through. Haleth didn’t so much as spare her a glance as she rushed through the gate. Her father lay surrounded by orcs, Haldar cutting through them to reach his father’s body. 

Maren could only imagine what the Orcs would do with their chieftain’s body, and so she started forward herself to aid the twins, rushing up the wall and trying to search for an entrance.

A blackfeathered arrow struck Haldar in the shoulder. He stumbled, twisting around to block an attack on his flank. But like sharks scenting blood, the orcs were all over him, slashing and stabbing and biting. It was a miracle that he stood as long as he did before one final blow ended his life.

Seeing Haleth about to make the same mistake in her grief, Honeymaren leapt over the wall, rolling when she hit the ground. She ducked under the swipe of a jagged axe and then rammed into one of the Orcs on Haleth’s back. Slitting his throat, she turned to Haleth, reaching down to grab Haldar by the arm, “I’ve got your brother, go!”

Nodding, Haleth hefted her father’s body over her shoulder and sprinted for the stockade, Honeymaren dragging Haldar just behind her. A few of the others helped her get the man back over the wall, and she laid him out next to his father. By then, the orcs had retreated or regroup, giving them a moment’s respite.

Her eyes sought out Ryder, her own twin, unable to imagine losing him. It was simply unfathomable. They returned to Haleth, who stood above her fallen kin. Haleth’s eyes were hard, though not without grief as she took in her people. Adults and children. Hunters and soldiers, farmers and bakers.

Honeymaren lifted her spear and shouted Haleth’s name and as one the Haladin took up the cry.

****

***

On the seventh day, Honeymaren knew in her heart that it would likely be their last. Some of their best warriors were dead or wounded and their supplies were depleted. Worse, there were now children on the wall, armed with haphazardly crafted spears and bows. They were all very brave, but they were still children.

She didn’t think their chieftain had slept for longer than two hours at a time. But Honeymaren also did not know where they would be without her to hold them together. No, she knew. She knew they’d all be dead by now.

Haleth paced the wall like a caged wolf, eyes ever on the hordes of Orcs that assailed their camp every hour. The Orcs had learned to pace themselves, to rotate through their ranks so that they always remained fresh while the Haladin grew more and more weary and exhausted with each attack.

Honeymaren joined Haleth on the wall, and peered out. Her voice was as sad as her heart heavy, “Archoron is gone, with his two children. Ryder saw them jump into the river.”

Haleth nodded, closing her eyes for a moment before speaking, “It will be over by noon. They are massing for a final attack. Drowning might be a mercy compared to what will come.”

Mind flashing to her mother and her kitchen knife, Maren folded her arms, “Then I choose a death with spear and sword, whether or not there will be anyone left to sing of it.” The lesson of the past seven days was that there was no glory in this, only hardship and pain.

She wasn’t sure why she added that last part, except that song had been on her mind since the siege had begun. Honeymaren still heard that singing, every now and again, and those rare moments of sleep that brought dreams. But there were more important things to worry about than the state of her mind and she was certain most of the others had their own demons keeping them awake at night. Hers just happened to be pleasant.

“Go rest,” Haleth ordered, not looking away from the Orc camp. “Try to recover as much strength as you can. We should have an hour, two if we are very lucky.”

Since they’d never been lucky, Honeymaren decided to count on the hour instead of the two. But even then, she found it difficult. Too much worrying around her, too much worrying inside her own head. And that song, that voice sang out to her, louder than ever before and the face that grew more and more clear.

The song only stopped when Haleth blew her horn. It was a deep sound that made Honeymaren’s chest hurt. But at least there was no more waiting. At least it was now or never.

“Mare.” Ryder grabbed her arm when she got up, “I’ll take the east today.”

“Ryder, the wall there is weak. I’ll take it.” He was her little brother, by a whole sun length. She wasn’t about to put him at risk if she could help it. Honeymaren had seen Haldar die and Haleth had not yet been able to grieve. She wasn’t sure she had that kind of strength.

He glared at her and shook his head, “It’s also the farthest from the infirmary and nursery. The west side is closer. If the east side falls, you’ll have time to reposition. If the west side falls, you’ll already be there. You’re the stronger of us, Mare, and nothing is more important than our wounded and the children.”

He was right on both counts though Honeymaren did not like the thought of him at the weak point and made to argue further, except Ryder added, “And you will be closer to Haleth. She is the only hope we have left.”

If Haleth fell, they were lost. Again, her brother was right and she was furious with him for that. But he did not deserve that anger, so she hugged him swiftly but tightly, “I will see you again when night has fallen and we are victorious.”

“Until we meet again,” He said. She refused to reply the same, instead turning away to jog to the west side of the wall.

Once she’d climbed up, she slowly turned around, taking in the camp that they had so desperately defended for seven bitter days. 

A thousand. Haldad and his children had gathered over a thousand of the Haladin and now there were barely seven hundred left. Looking to the east, she could see Ryder helping to fortify the weakness in that side of the wall. More to the center, Haleth barked orders. Someone had started to break down the logs and sticks used for their tents and fire pits, sharpening the ends and adding them to the stockade.

Honeymaren suddenly felt very tired. But she rolled her shoulders and prepared herself for the assault that would soon be upon them.

The Orcs took their usual positions, their freshest warriors at the front, iron shields held high and jagged spears at the ready. There were twenty lines of fifty or more, and behind them, another ten and fifty and a ten and fifty behind that.

And those were just the ones she could see; there were more behind the hill. Hundreds. Thousands. It might as well have been uncountable.

A goblin blew a horn, and somewhere behind the hill something big and heavy beat on a drum. The orcs began to march, shields up though the Haladin had precious few arrows left. There were two in Maren’s quiver, and Haleth had none. So she drew one, nocked it, and let it fly. It found its mark in the goblin that was blowing the horn, silencing it.

Haleth laughed and the orcish army lost all control, swarming for the wall. Honeymaren spied a large orc, one she recognized from previous days, and used her last arrow to fell him. Then she looked down at her bow, before snapping it in half. Each half would make for a useful club, and she hung them from her belt as she picked her spear up.

The orcs broke on the wall like a wave, spreading out to either side. Honeymaren quickly lost any sense of where Haleth or her brother were as she fought off orc after orc. Most of their bodies she managed to direct into the river, but a few began to pile up at the base of the stockade. It would be the same all up and down the wall.

It would not matter in the slightest. Less than a sun length into the final assault, the wall shuddered as both the center and the east gave way. The orcs at her section of the wall quickly turned and followed the others as they started to flood inside.

And then Maren heard it. That singing, like ice in the dead of winter. And as that note faded, came the music of trumpets. They rang out like silver bells, delicate and strong at the same time.

On the hills to the north came a miraculous sight; a host of elves in glittering armor. The man at the head pointed his spear; the trumpets blew again, and then he charged forward, the army of elves at his back.

Panic filled the ranks of the orcs. Some ran into the river, others ran out of the stockade to position themselves to repel the elves. Their leader drove his spear into the chest of one of the largest orcs, before ripping it out and spinning around to kill another.

Honeymaren saw Haleth attacking the orcs from their flank and so she jumped in as well. When her spear broke in the armor of a goblin she drew her clubs and resorted to bashing their skulls in.

In the space of a few short minutes, what had been their hell was over. The elves pushed the orcs into the river and the Haladin made sure any who tried to escape that fate were cut down. They would be a party to their own rescue, nor not be rescued at all.

And then … silence, save the breeze. Haleth stood flanked by three other women, including her lover, and regarded the Elf-lord that had finally come. It must have taken days to muster a host this large and then march them here. Had Haldad asked for aid? Or had the elves come on their own?

He pressed his hand to his chest, and inclined his head in respect. “I am Caranthir, and I am glad we were not too late.”

“Too late for my father and brother,” Haleth said, before her shoulders loosened and she held out her hand. “But I am not one to turn away such aid, nor be unthankful for it.”

“I know that there is nothing we can do to return to you your kin nor any of the others you have lost.” He took her hand, shaking it firmly, before he looked around at the other Haladin and their now ruined defenses. “I’ve never suspected such valor and strength among the Edain and I think that I have been willfully blind.”

A day sooner, if they had arrived but a day sooner dozens would still be alive. Honeymaren closed her eyes, trying to control her sadness and grief, and nearly missed what Caranthir said next.

“There is something I can do. If you would remove and dwell further north, there you shall have the friendship and protection of the Eldar, and free lands of your own.”

There were murmurings around them, and Honeymaren’s eyes snapped open. The offer seemed too good to be true; and like the rest of her people, Honeymaren was not one to be guided or ruled by anyone but one of her own.

And Haleth was even prouder still, “Thank you. But my mind is now set, lord, to leave the shadow of the mountains and go west.” There were others of their kindred who had gone west. People they could reunite with, friends and family. There was even a thin hope that they could find Honeymaren’s mother.

Caranthir, for his part, took the rebuff well. “The offer remains. But at least allow yourselves the time to recover and recuperate. I have brought healers, and food and supplies.”

Haleth nodded, a tired smile on her face, “I shall accept that gladly.”

****

***

Over the next few weeks, they spent a great deal of time among the elves. Haleth and Caranthir struck a sort of uneasy friendship and when Honeymaren was not searching the woods for those of her people who had fled before the stockade, she tried to learn what she could of the Eldar as well. They were different from the Haladin and mortals in general, but in many ways they were the same. She had the impression that were it not for the dark times, they might have laughed more. Maren felt that deeply.

On one night, not long before the Haladin would leave in search of their new home, she sat at a campfire with two of the Eldar. Avarian was a brown-skinned elf with eyes such a dark grey as to resemble the sea in a storm and her companion was lighter skinned, with piercing green eyes. Silamë, though Honeymaren had not spoken with her as often as she might have liked.

Avarian was staring into the fire as though it were sharing some mystery with her. Honeymaren tilted her head and asked, “What do you see?”

“Nothing of import.”

“Clearly it’s something,” Honeymaren said. Perhaps it was not her place to speak, but she spoke anyway, “Or you would not stare the way you do.”

The elf frowned, looking away from the fire. There was a flash as the light of it burned in her eyes, “I see a face, sometimes. Of a man I’ve never met. I feel it means something, though the answer eludes me. Perhaps it merely means that I wish for better times.”

Silamë looked suddenly tense, as though something in the conversation bothered her. Her eyes bore into Avarian’s face before she stood, “I have been thinking on this for some time, but I’ve lost the appetite for war. When the host returns, I will not be among them. I just want to tinker.”

Her words did not seem to make sense to Honeymaren. Not the part where she tired of war, but where the near outburst had come from. 

“Silamë, wait.” Avarian grabbed her hand, “Where will you go?”

“Sapphire,” Silamë said, sadness welling within her eyes. 

“Pardon?”

“I dream of sapphire eyes.” Silamë squeezed Avarian’s hand and then pulled hers free, “And I am certain that if I continue down this path, I shall never meet her.” Her voice gentled, in the way one might impart an important warning upon a friend, “So remember your man in the fire, and ask yourself if you truly wish to continue to chase after an oath you never took and a lord who will never see you.”

Avarian tore her gaze away, returning it to the fire, through her eyes glistened. When Honeymaren glanced back at Silamë, the other Elf had already walked away. Maren worked her jaw, throat bobbing as she considered what to say, if anything. “It’s… really not my place, but maybe she’s right.”

“I know she’s right,” Avarian grumbled. “But sometimes our paths are not chosen for us.”

****

***

Avarian’s words stayed with her over the next year as they made new homesteads and she wondered if her own path had already been decided or if she could find a way to control her own fate.

But Avarian proved prophetic in a way; Haleth chose to move them once again.

Honeymaren did not want to go, and the mood was similar among most of their people. But they went anyway, trusting Haleth to see them through whatever dangers they might encounter. So in this way, Honeymaren’s path was chosen for her, and if she had not followed it, she might have missed out on something unique and special.

They passed beneath the shadow of the Mountains of Terror. To the south was Melian’s Girdle, a land defended by an ancient enchantment and they did their best to thread the needle between two powerful and opposing forces. No one wanted to test the hospitality of those that lay protected by that enchantment, and no one wanted to venture too close to the mountains and what lay on the other side.

Winter came early, while they were still weeks from their destination. The Haladin had been plagued by attacks from all manner of evil creatures; wargs and orcs and fouler things that lurked in the night. But they pushed forward, Haleth’s will their own and her voice and spirit keeping them together as it always did.

There was no warning before a howling blizzard swept down from the mountain, blinding Honeymaren. She leaned on her spear to keep her balance in the heavy wind, trying to make sense of which direction had been west. No longer able to see where anyone else was, she groped blindly in front of her, and then behind her. Beneath the wind was another sound; a voice that called to her in a language that reminded her of the Eldar. Honeymaren listened, but the sound was all around her, filling her senses until even the storm faded into the background.

Someone called out for her, so she started to move in that direction, hoping it was her brother or Haleth. She walked west, at least, she thought she was walking west, following the sound of voices.

But the longer she walked, the less certain she became that she was moving in the right direction. Fear gripped her, colder than the snow she was plowing through, as her muscles ached from the effort. Honeymaren was well and truly lost and she could imagine herself frozen here, never to be found.

Something nearby growled. Honeymaren saw a giant, lumbering shape charging towards her and brought her spear up at the last second as a bear slammed into her.

The weight of it pushed her back and she lost her balance, falling back into the snow. But the bear was unmoving save to heave great rasps of air through rattling lungs. Her spear had found its mark! Luck, not skill, but she was alive and in the end that was what counted. She could embellish the tale later when sharing it with Ryder. For now, she would not be long for this world if she stayed out in this storm. Slowly, Honeymaren approached the bear, “I am sorry, but it was you or me. And your death will give me life.” 

Quickly and with mercy, she ended the bear, then held her dagger as she studied it. Even this close, she could barely make it out through the white-out, and she did not like the thought of what she had to do next. One of the elders at the stockade had spoken of this once, a time he’d been lost in the snow and a dear friend had saved their lives.

Kneeling at its belly, she prepared to slice the beast open, but as suddenly as the blizzard had begun, it stopped. The wind was there, and then it was gone. But it hadn’t died down.

Everything was very still.

Snowflakes hung in the air, perfectly frozen. A sound like bells reached Honeymaren’s ears, and she stood, looking around for the source, marveling at the beauty of a blizza.

She nearly missed it, the figure approaching through the trees, but once she had seen it she wondered how she had not noticed it before.

There was a woman, clad in a dress the color of sapphire gems and nearly as sparkling, with hair like spun gold. Diamonds glittered along a collar that swept low on her throat and a pendant dangled between firm breasts. The dress hugged her hips and trailed behind her as she moved on top of the snow. She seemed to glow with the same inner light that Honeymaren had seen within some of the Eldar.

Honeymaren tore her gaze up to the woman’s face; she had large, inquisitive blue eyes, sharp cheek bones, and elegantly pointed ears.

Something deep within Honeymaren’s soul told her that this was no mere elf. Certainly not one of the Avari or Sindar, but not even one of the Eldar such as Caranthir. Like the latter, there was a light within her, and it made the very air in her presence shimmer.

She was taller than Honeymaren, perhaps even taller than Silamë and in the space between one heartbeat and the next, she was suddenly standing directly in front of Honeymaren.

Her _presence_ was overwhelming, but it was not an evil feeling. There was goodness in this woman. Honeymaren felt immediately entranced, “What … what are you? I do not believe you are an elf.”

That felt immediately impolite and she quickly apologized, “I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”

She laughed, smiling at Maren, “Nay, you are right. I am no elf.”

“I am Honeymaren, of the Haladin. I…” She glanced behind her and realized she had no clue where they were or where she was. Looking back at the woman, she said, “I have become separated from my people.”

“So one of the three Great Houses then.” Chuckling, the woman stepped back, then offered her hand, “The storm will not obey me for much longer, nor by rights should it. I think that you might prefer to shelter in my home over the innards of a poor bear.”

The elves had so many names and branches of their tree, and so did humans. The three Great Houses of the Edain, the Atanatári. Honeymaren had never met anyone from the Houses of Bëor or Marach but some day she hoped she would.

“My brother started calling us the House of Haleth.” More importantly, she felt bad for the bear, but nodded, “I hate to leave it here, but if we need to go then we need to go.”

“A worthy name, Lady. Worry not for this creature, it shan't go to waste.”

“I’m … I’m no Lady.” Hesitantly, Honeymaren took the woman’s hand. Her skin was slightly chilled, “What is your name, Lady?”

For Elsa was most certainly a Lady.

“Elsa.” Elsa glanced at her for a moment before she started to lead her further up the mountain.

It meant going further from her people but Honeymaren didn’t have a choice. Even if she had survived the night inside that bear, she doubted she would have ever caught up with her people before she froze to death.

“Are there any settlements nearby? Of Free Peoples? I can get out of your hair in the morning.” Part of her didn’t want to, a curious part that wanted to know more about this strange, beautiful woman.

Elsa smiled again, “Naught until you reach Doriath. I have friends there, but I suspect your people will make it before you. Winter is kinder in the valley than here on this peak.”

“You’re not … I mean it’s obvious you’re not, but I’m still trying to understand how I could find a woman like you in these mountains.”

“I am not what?” Elsa pulled her around a rock outcropping, “A servant of the Enemy?”

But Honeymaren barely heard her. Rising above them was a keep. She’d never seen a castle or keep before, so she had nothing to compare it to, but it was many times the size of the stockade, rising against the mountain. It was as though it had been carved out of the rock, with ice bridges connecting three spiralling towers. There was so _much_ ice, decorating every inch of the stone in elaborate designs and patterns.

“It is warmer than it looks,” Elsa promised, and she pulled Honeymaren inside.

Eerie blue light danced in fixtures on the walls, and the door led into a hallway that opened up into a vast chamber. Here, stone pillars turned into ice that reflected and refracted all around it, scattering the light around like motes of dust or, more accurately, snowflakes.

But Elsa had not lied and Honeymaren felt warmer as she followed the woman through the frozen castle. Her skin burned where she’d touched Elsa’s, but not unpleasantly so and her mind went unbidden to places and positions she’d only ever dreamed about. That song in the back of her mind, lips that tasted like berries...

They went up a winding staircase built from spindley ice, and beneath an archway underneath carved stone statues of beings that she could only guess at.

As if reading the question on her face, Elsa paused, and lifted her head towards the carved statues, “They are the Valar. Shapers of this world. It was they who carved the canyons and valleys and lifted up the mountains." She smiled a little mischievously, “With a little help, of course.”

Elsa gestured to them each in turn, naming them as she did so. She spoke of Manwë, King of the Winds. Of Ulmo the Sea King, Lord of Water and Aulë, the Smith and Lord of the Earth. There was Oromë the Huntsman, Lord of Forests. Mandos, Judge of the Dead, Irmo the Master of Dreams and Tulkas, the Champion of Valinor.

And there were Queens too, though when she spoke of them her tone changed, becoming almost hauntingly beautiful and song-like.

Most fondly, she sang of Varda Elentari, the Star Queen and Queen of the Valar. It was Varda, Elsa sang, who placed the stars in the sky. But her fondness extended to Yavanna, Lady of Earth and the Fruit-Giver. To Nienna, Lady of Mercy and Estë the Gentle, Lady of Healing and Rest. Her voice lifted up Vairë, Weaver of storied webs, who’s tapestries preserved all the tales of the world. And there was also Vana the Ever-young, lover of nature and maiden of spring, and lastly, Nessa the Dancer, lady of joy and laughter.

“The Valar,” Honeymaren repeated, entranced by Elsa’s voice, though she did remember snippets of conversation among the Eldar. “The elves spoke of them sometimes. Almost as though they’re gods.”

“I wonder how much longer it will be before all fades to myth and legend,” Elsa mused. “The world is young, still. Ancient for you, ancient even for the Eldar. But younger than it is old.”

“May I ask … I know this is rude, but what are you?” She’d been ignored the first time but she was desperate to know.

Elsa stepped towards her, then placed her hand at the small of Honeymaren’s back to guide her, “Have you heard of Melian?”

“Yes. They say she’s some kind of demi-god from across the western sea. It was she who created the Girdle.” Honeymaren blinked, then looked more closely at Elsa, “You’re like her, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Elsa trailed her fingers up Honeymaren’s spine, sending shivers running through her. For all the ice of Elsa’s exterior, she exuded a warmth from deep within, “She follows Vana and Estë, while I follow Varda. Where Melian commands the forests and caverns of Doriath and my dear friend Uinen roams the sea, my domain is that of Ice and Snow.”

She hummed as they walked, and Honeymaren was so distracted by what she was being told and the sheer beauty of the woman walking besides her that she almost didn’t realize how familiar that song sounded. She stopped abruptly, turning to stare at Elsa, “I know that song!”

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d not heard it after all.” Elsa had stopped at well, and leaned against the cold stone wall, propping her hip against it. The way she looked at Honeymaren made her curious.

“Why were you trying to sing to me?” Honeymaren dared to step closer, though Elsa did not back away. If anything she leaned closer.

“I was not singing directly to you,” Elsa admitted. “Not at first. I’d hoped there might be someone who could listen and who would be strong enough to brave these mountains to come to me. That was how I found you, atop that stockade, though I did not know if you would survive, or if you survived if you would be able to travel all this way.”

Would she have? If she’d kept hearing that singing, even if her people had stayed put or dwelt north as Caranthir had asked, she would have come, “Curiosity is powerful, Lady Elsa. I don’t think you’d have been disappointed. But…”

Honeymaren put a hand onto Elsa’s hip and stared into her eyes, “You have not answered why.”

“This mountain is lonely,” she replied. The answer was a simple one, with a painful truth at its core, “A respite, even for a night, is welcome.”

“A respite?” Honeymaren blinked, and then realized what Elsa meant yet she did not remove her hand, “And if I was unwilling?”

“Then I would hope for the simple pleasure of your conversation,” Elsa assured her.

Elsa could talk for hours and Honeymaren would be content to listen and content to talk to her. She was certain there were tales innumerable that were just waiting to be told. Honeymaren realized, vaguely, that she might not even be able to descend back down the mountain until spring. So there was time, and plenty of it, and if Elsa was able to reach Honeymaren so far away, she might be able to get a message to her brother. That would go a long way towards soothing her worries.

“I wouldn’t mind both.” She stood on her toes and kissed her. It was meant to be a gentle sort of promise, for that first thing _after_ the simple pleasure of conversation. But as soon as their lips meant a spark shot through Honeymaren and she felt herself give way to Elsa’s hands and her hungry mouth. Elsa was so beautiful and her hunger stoked that spark into an inferno inside Honeymaren, but that wasn’t the thing she noticed as her head whirled from the kiss. 

It was the almost reverent way that Elsa touched her, betraying a sort of nervousness that made Honeymaren’s heart ache. Slowly, gently, she broke the kiss and stilled her own hands, but didn’t pull away. “You’re _nervous_.”

This ethereal beauty, neither human nor elf, was nervous. The realization made Honeymaren want to slow down, just a little bit. 

Elsa’s lips twitched and she tilted her head, shrugging her left shoulder, “It is not oft I invite a beautiful woman to my bed. You would, in fact, be the first.”

“Then lead me to your bed, though I would like for us to take our time.” Heat covered Maren’s face as she spoke, and it was Elsa who offered a comforting touch. The nervousness was a mutual feeling.

“Do you really wish to--”

“Yes.”

Later, Honeymaren would be able to recall every moment in vivid detail. From the sound of Elsa’s dress sliding to the floor and the sight of her skin gleaming in the frosty air to the little gasp she made when Honeymaren first touched the heat between her legs. For the first time in her life, Honeymaren understood what it meant for two to become as one as she lost herself in the everything of Elsa.

She dreamt that night of happy times beneath an enchanted canopy, Elsa clad in white and laughing in her arms. There was magic here, too, and not just in the shape of her smile but all around and within them both. Somewhere nearby a spirit played.

_"What’s your favorite part of spring?" Maren plucked a few flowers and started to weave them into Elsa’s hair._

_"The smell of the flowers in the breeze."_

****

***

Honeymaren stretched languidly. Elsa’s bed was decadently large and impossibly soft and it was easy enough to become lost in the blankets if one wasn’t careful. She rolled onto her right side, reaching over to drag her fingers up Elsa’s body from her hip to her breasts and finally caressing her cheek. Elsa stared back at her and she wondered if she’d been watching her all night. Did her kind even sleep? She had a bed, so she must have slept at least sometimes.

“Good morning,” Elsa said, closing her eyes and leaning into Honeymaren’s hand. She seemed somehow to be glowing more today, which Maren assumed was because of her. It was enough to make her feel an immense satisfaction. To make this woman even more luminous? She must have done something right.

“Good morning,” Maren replied, stroking her thumb over Elsa’s cheek.

Elsa gazed at her a moment, then laughed, a slow bubbling sound that came from deep within her. Honeymaren felt her chest tighten and kissed her in response, the kiss deepened, lingering, and then Honeymaren did not leave that bed for some time.

When she at last stumbled from it, Elsa guided her to another part of the keep. Despite the ice, something kept the air warm enough for Honeymaren’s comfort, and then she felt the heat of ovens and the smell of something sweet cooking in them.

“And here I thought you were alone,” Maren said, though why a woman would remain alone in a keep such as this was beyond her and should have been the first clue.

“I am, in a way. There are spirits here, though they are formless and shapeless. I am not bothered by the cold, but they keep this place warm for themselves, and for you.” Elsa slid her hand across Maren’s back before stepping past her and into the kitchen. “And I do need to eat, on occasion. I’m particularly fond of sweet rolls. They remind me of my sister.”

“You have a sister?” 

Elsa nodded, smiling fondly, “Anna. She is very far away and I miss her so.”

“Will you see her again?” Maren’s heart suddenly ached for Ryder.

“Someday, in the next Age when my task here is done.”

Elsa danced around a table and picked up one of the sweet rolls. Honeymaren could see how gooey and warm it was from here and her mouth immediately watered as Elsa took a slow, sensuous bite.

She was relatively certain Elsa meant to slay her. And that it was working. 

“So what now, Lady?” Honeymaren asked, though she was unsure what the question meant for herself.

“Winter is settling in,” Elsa said, licking her fingers in a decidedly unladylike manner. “I will not keep you for you are not a prisoner. But I would fear for your life should you attempt the journey to Doriath now.”

Plucking another roll from the selection, Elsa walked back to Honeymaren. She held it up, as if she meant to _feed_ Maren. Hesitantly, she took a bite, the sweet flavor exploding in her mouth and reminding her of her namesake. “And please,” Elsa murmured, her tone also like honey. “Call me Elsa.”

Maren swallowed and smiled at her, “You are still the most beautiful Lady I’ve ever seen, Elsa.”

And she had seen quite a bit of her. Honeymaren picked up a cloth to clean her mouth, humming a little. Elsa watched her a moment, before starting to hum along. Honeymaren raised her eyebrows, changing the tune and singing in wordless melody. 

Elsa sang along with her, taking her hand and pulling her away from the kitchen and into a Hall with a tall ceiling. The throne looked lonely, the icy blue lights making it feel as though they stood deep within a glacier.

But Honeymaren scarcely noticed. She sang with Elsa, spinning around her in a fluid dance. Their hands would brush each other as they passed, the tips of fingers running up arms or caressing a wrist. As their song reached a crescendo, Elsa spun into Honeymaren’s arms, back to her front. She tilted her head back, turning enough so that she could rest her head on Maren’s shoulder.

Honeymaren stood there, holding her as the last note died down. Something special and unique had just happened, though she lacked the words to explain it even to herself. Slowly, Elsa unwound herself, gazing at Honeymaren with a gentle, enraptured expression.

“If … If we could somehow let my brother know I live,” Honeymaren said. “I would be able to freely enjoy my time with you without guilt.”

“I can send a message as fast as the nightingale sings,” Elsa promised. 

****

***

Time passed oddly in this Keep upon the mountain. Some days hardly seemed to pass at all, while others went on until Honeymaren thought they would never end. Honeymaren wondered if there was something to the magic here, or to the food and drink. There’d been stories about the Elves, how they’d lure unsuspecting people into their world, never to escape. Honeymaren had never paid much heed to such childish stories, but here, seduced and enraptured by this powerful woman, she wondered if there’d been a kernel of truth.

Would she walk down from this mountain in the spring only to find centuries had passed and all that she’d known was gone? Or would she enter this Doriath and find her brother, safe and whole?

“What troubles you, love?” Elsa brushed hair away from the back of Honeymaren’s neck, leaning in to kiss her shoulder.

“Time moves strangely here.” She leaned back against her, “Some days feel longer than others. Does that mean anything?”

Elsa went very still for a moment. “I do not know. Time has little meaning for me.”

That only made Honeymaren curious. She turned around in Elsa’s arm and looked at her, “I may regret this question, what do you mean?”

“I was there before the world was made.” Elsa looked through Honeymaren, her eyes growing distant, “We would sing, each of us, until the Creator brought us together to sing a new song, and on that song the world was made.”

Music had been such a part of Honeymaren’s life and that of her people, that she accepted Elsa’s words as truth. There was music in birdsong and the rustling of leaves in a breeze. There was music too in the beat of a loved one’s heart.

A smile played at Elsa’s lips, "Even the lesser of us, such as myself, are capable of creation and he allowed us to weave our own thoughts and ideas into his music." Elsa looked at her again, "No words exist in the tongue of elves or mortals to describe the sound of our voices joined as one. Anna’s voice in particular..."

Her expression grew sad, almost pensive, "There were three themes, ere the end, and after, we were shown a vision of this world that we created."

"Why do you sound so sad when you say that?

"There was one who sang discord, but even his part was necessary for the act of creation." Elsa shook her head.

The Enemy. Morgoth as the Elves called him. 

Honeymaren shuddered at the thought. There were things she wished did not exist, and the Dark Lord and his creations were at the top of that list. Her throat bobbed and she asked a question she thought she might regret, "So we were all created by this music?"

Elsa's expression softened, her smile teasing, "I had no part in creating you nor the elves, if that is what you're trying to ask. None of us had the courage to try to contribute to the making of the Children. Not even the Enemy."

Even Elsa, it seemed, did not wish to speak Morgoth's name. Honeymaren nodded, "I don't suppose you could sing your part for me, some day? Or at least tell me what part of the world you sang into being."

"Alas, I cannot make those sounds in this form and you cannot hear them besides." Elsa laughed, "But I promise to make you a song of your very own. And more than that, one day the Valar and the Maiar and all the men who ever lived will come together and sing the world into a new shape. Though not even the Valar know what role Elves and Dwarves will play in that music."

She kissed Honeymaren's forehead, "When I return you to you kin, you may seek out some of the Eldar. They know this tale as well, for Manwë shared it with them long ago."

“I hope Spring comes late,” Honeymaren whispered, noting that Elsa had not answered the second part of her question. She hoped she would.

Honeymaren was dying to know what gift Elsa had blessed the world with, but she didn’t think it appropriate to ask and was not entirely sure it was appropriate to even speculate about. If she was meant to know, Elsa would tell her and Honeymaren did not wish to ruin their time by pursuing upsetting questions.

****

***

The winter was long, but Honeymaren did not notice the cold. Days and weeks passed and she treasured every moment she spent with Elsa. When the storm broke, they explored the mountain together, Elsa showing her some of the secret ways, Honeymaren in turn sharing with her techniques of the Haladin. That was how they spent their days, and their nights were spent in joy and laughter.

But though winter was long, it was not endless.

Honeymaren stood atop the highest tower of the keep, watching a bird fly by. It was amazing that such life lived here; on the other side of these mountains was the realm of Morgoth, and the mountains themselves were filled with creatures great and deadly. But here was life, beautiful and innocent. 

It swung around and landed nearby, chirping out a sweet little song.

“That one is mine,” Elsa said, sliding her arms around Honeymaren from behind.

“Yours?”

“Birdsong.” Elsa nuzzled the top of her head, “In the song of creation, I thought of birdsong.”

“I would have thought that ice and snow were yours,” Honeymaren replied.

“They are my element, yes. But I wanted more than my kind to be able to sing. How fortunate that our creator thought to give Elves and Humans the same ability.” Elsa sighed, a contented sound, “We’ve made such music together, have we not?”

“Music I never thought possible.” Honeymaren leaned back against her, worrying her lip between her teeth. With the melting snow her time here was ending and yet she felt torn between seeing Ryder again and between staying here, with Elsa.

She felt guilty in both directions. Guilty over abandoning her people and living in what felt like luxury while they likely suffered, and guilty over leaving Elsa behind.

“You cannot stay, Honeymaren.” 

Throat bobbing, Honeymaren didn’t question how Elsa knew her thoughts; it was a common occurrence. “I know. But I’ve come to care about you a great deal.”

“That is a better gift than any I could ask for.” Elsa pulled away, and Honeymaren turned around, staring at her. Elsa quirked her eyebrow, “What? To have someone like you love me? Why are you surprised?”

“Come with me.” Honeymaren took her hand, “Come with me. You could meet my brother and Haleth. My _family_. You could be part of that family too.”

“I wish I could, but I cannot.” Elsa lifted her hand to her face and leaned her cheek into it, “You are mortal, your flame lit for but an instant in the Ages of the Earth. And yet you will live on, in the stories I share with my sister and my kindred. At least until we meet again.”

“And how will we meet again, if I am mortal and you are not?”

Elsa just smiled, “Once more perhaps. But after that, not in this Age, nor the next. But some day, when the world is different.”

Honeymaren frowned, then turned back to look at the world below them, “Do you like Spring?”

“I love it. Particularly the smell of flowers in the breeze.”

“Why did I know you would say that?”

“Because you are a part of my heart.”

****

**The Year 454 of the First Age**

Honeymaren could smell flowers on the breeze, though she could no longer see. Her body had grown frail in recent years. But her nose and her ears still worked as well as they always had, and along with the floral scent there came a song. Familiar and haunting and bringing with it memories of another time in her life when ice and snow had been her dearest companion.

She smiled, listening as the song grew closer and the air more chilled, until a cold hand took hers and stroked her knuckles gently. She’d hoped for this, hoped to see or hear Elsa one more time, “Oh Elsa, I never stopped loving you.”

“And I you,” Elsa said, her voice as musical as Honeymaren remembered, “Are you afraid, Honeymaren?”

“Of dying? Oh no, I’m not afraid of that. I can see my mother again and my brother, of this I am certain.” The Dark Lord liked to whisper to mortals, that death was a curse, but Honeymaren had never believed it.

“Not even I know where your spirit goes when you die.” Elsa’s lips were soft on Honeymaren’s cheek.

“I would like … to see the stars again, my Elsa. With you.”

“Not in this life. But I promise you that you will see the stars again.”

“Will you be there?” Maren turned her head in the direction of Elsa’s voice, “They are more beautiful with you.”

“I’ll be there.”

Elsa kept her promises, at least that was Honeymaren’s hope. She smiled, feeling her body growing lighter and lighter. It was almost time. All she had to do was let go.

“Until we meet again,” Elsa whispered, and then Honeymaren could see the stars all around her. 

And beneath it all, like the heartbeat of the world, was music. It ebbed and flowed, filling Honeymaren until her very being thrummed like the string of a harp. It was so beautiful, so much like coming home that it made her very soul weep.

She sang, like she had all those years ago, inside that keep as she danced with Elsa. She sang, and voices rose up to greet her.

****

**Sometime in the Sixth Age  
1843 by Julian Reckoning**

_Maren caught her off guard, tugging her face over and kissing her. Elsa closed her eyes and hoped this never got old. Not the taste of Maren’s lips, or the warmth of her skin or the quiet little moan that sometimes escaped her throat._

_That was a kind of music too, wasn’t it? Elsa wondered what it was about a starlit sky that made her think about music.  
She broke the kiss, touching her forehead to Maren’s, and started to sing._

**Author's Note:**

> Why yes, I also made this canon to Starlight.
> 
> That's the beauty of Middle-earth, the setting is our own world but long ago in an era of myth and legend. The world has been remade several times.
> 
> Much like with Korra and Asami, I had the task of making them fit the setting and Middle-earth appropriate dialogue without losing who they are. Never quite sure if I pulled it off!


End file.
